


wailing in the streets

by allonsy_gabriel, Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: Murder In Two Acts (The Serial Killer AU Even The Authors Didn't Want But Here We Are) [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Dies/Nobody Lives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Dark, Gen, Graphic Violence, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Rated Because Of Murder, Serial Killer James Madison, Serial Killer John Laurens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 03:36:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12448848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: To his credit, Laurens didn’t seem bothered by the knife at his throat. “Does Jefferson know what you do?”The alley was so quiet that the sharp shake of Madison’s head was almost audible. “No. Does Hamilton?”or, Six Things, One Thing.





	wailing in the streets

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's supposed to be working on Here Be Monsters and Royal Jamilton AU? Us. Guess who's _not_ working on any of that? That's right. Us. (You should definitely give those a read if you haven't already, by the way.)

"You're Hamilton's Laurens." There was a hint of surprise—even wonder—in the man’s voice as he spoke.

"And you're Jefferson's Madison."

There was a pause. "I admit, I hadn't expected to meet you here."

“What _did_ you expect?” Laurens asked.

“A quiet evening,” Madison explained, “A victim. Certainly not anyone I know.”

“Technically, we’ve never met before,” Laurens pointed out.

“That’s odd, now that I think about it. Thomas has been dating Hamilton for close to a year now. I would have expected them to try to get us to meet.”

“It seems that we’ve managed that all on our own. Though”—there was a rueful laugh—“maybe not in the way they would have imagined.”

“No,” Madison agreed. “I dare say nobody expects to meet their best friend’s boyfriend’s best friend this way.”

To his credit, Laurens didn’t seem bothered by the knife at his throat. “Does Jefferson know what you do?”

The alley was so quiet that the sharp shake of Madison’s head was almost audible. “No. Does Hamilton?”

“No.” The taller man made a show of glancing around. “So, what do we do?”

Madison snorted. “I had initially planned to kill you. I admit, it’s something of a guilty pleasure of mine—I like to see whether I can get away with it, see how well I can fool everyone.”

The other man grinned. “Kinky.”

“Says the person perfectly content to have a knife against their throat.” As if to emphasize his point, Madison pressed the knife closer Laurens’ throat.

“Look, if you were going to kill me, you would have already. I’m too interesting to kill.”

Madison’s grip on the hilt tightened. “You have a bloated ego, Laurens.”

“Do you know why I know that?” Laurens pressed on, a grin on his face. “Because _I_ would have never killed you, were our positions reversed. We’re in the same boat; might as well help each other out.”

Almost unconsciously, Madison shifted his stance, withdrawing the blade of the knife from Laurens’ throat. “Go on.”

Laurens shrugged. “There isn’t much more to say,” he admitted. “I kill people to relax; you kill people to see whether you can get away with it. I propose to kill two birds with one stone—excuse the pun.”

A smirk slowly made its way to Madison’s face. “Any suggestions?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

*******

“Ah!” Hamilton smiled happily when he spotted Laurens standing in the doorway. “John! So glad you could—“ He suddenly paused, his eyes widening as Madison came into sight, standing next to Laurens. “I see you’ve met,” he finished awkwardly.

Laurens glowered. “Yes, Alex,” he snapped. “No thanks to you, by the way.”

Hamilton made a helpless gesture. “I did want to introduce you, but things never seemed to work out—one of you was always busy, or Thomas had a meeting and it would be extremely awkward if he wasn’t—“

Laurens held up a hand to stall the avalanche of words flowing from Hamilton’s mouth. “I get it,” he said curtly. “We were somewhat less important than fucking your boyfriend seven ways to Sunday.”

He watched in satisfaction as Hamilton’s face flushed. “I didn’t mean to, John, honestly,“ Hamilton began again. “Please believe me.”

Laurens’ face softened at Hamilton’s words. “I believe you,” he assured his best friend. “I simply wish we would have been able to avoid the meeting we’ve just had.” He shot a glance behind him, but, when their eyes met, there was nothing but amusement on Madison’s face.

Hamilton perked up. “How _did_ you two meet?” he asked curiously. “As far as I know, you don’t exactly keep the same company.”

There was a distinct smirk on Madison’s face as he said, “We discovered that we happen to share a hobby. You might say it’s to die for.”

Laurens scrunched up his nose in distaste at Madison’s words. Hamilton remained oblivious to his friend’s discomfort. “Really?” he pressed. “I didn’t know you, well, _had_ hobbies.”

Madison rolled his eyes. “Not everyone is as dedicated to their work as you are, Alexander.”

“I have it on good authority that it’s one of my better qualities,” Hamilton told Madison. “And did we not partner up on that one case?”

“You wrote the majority of the material, and spoke for six hours—no break for lunch, mind—not letting me get a word in edgewise,” Madison reminded him. “I would hardly call that collaboration.”

Hamilton opened his mouth, but Madison shushed him.

“I know what you’re about to say, and I feel that I need to remind you that you have a date with Thomas in”—he made a show of looking at his clock—”just under four hours. You had better get ready.”

Hamilton started. He jumped up from the chair, dusting off his shirt. “Shit, you’re right! You have my deepest gratitude, James!” he yelled as he ran up the stairs.

Madison stared after him. Laurens came to a stop next to him. “You’re not killing Alex,” he murmured.

Madison smiled softly. “No, I wasn’t planning on it. If anyone deserves to kill him, it’s you.”

He watched as Laurens swallowed. He followed the movements of his larynx. “I’m not killing Alex either,” Laurens said with more confidence than he felt.

Madison stuffed his hands into his pockets. “So you keep saying. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with a frankly stunning lady.”

***

Eliza Schuyler didn’t look like a Greek goddess, but she was close enough to one, in Madison’s opinion. She had the charm, the intelligence, and the kindness of one. It had been that peculiar glint in her eyes that initially caught Madison’s attention.

Eliza Schuyler was trusting. She believed the best in anyone. She was an innocent in an all-too-dark world, a rarity, a paradox. She would remain that way, untarnished by its evils, if Madison had anything to say in the matter. Fortunately, he did.

He invited her to dinner under the pretext of discussing her upcoming fundraiser. Sweet Eliza, trusting Eliza, accepted his invitation. She was a darling. Nowhere as clever as her older sister, or as funny as her younger, but she was a force to be reckoned with in her own right.

This time, he went with asphyxiation. It had always held a certain appeal to him—to be in such close quarters with the victim, to watch as the light went out behind their eyes, and to know that he was the one behind it. It gave him a special thrill to wield that sort of power.

This time was no different. He snuck up behind her while she was admiring one of his paintings. Poor thing hadn’t even known it was coming. By the time she realized what was going on, it was too late. She tried to struggle, of course, but even she had to have realized that it was futile. She wasn’t particularly strong, and while she might be trained in self-defense, that did no good when there was no oxygen to power the brain.

He couldn’t help but smile as she slumped back against his chest. He ran a hand through her hair. A Greek goddess indeed.

He waited for her to pass out, then covered her in plastic, careful to wear gloves while fiddling with the fabrics. It wouldn’t do to leave such obvious clues to the police. Even Detective Burr would have been able to figure that one out.

He put her in the position he wanted, then left the refrigerator room. He turned down the temperature, and consigned himself to a long wait. She would be a beautiful feature in an art exhibition of Greek art. Maybe Laurens could be convinced to take her.

No, Madison dismissed the idea as quickly as it had appeared. Laurens has _morals._ He huffed. Like they’ve ever been of any help to anyone. They were a way for the weak to constrain the strong—to keep them from reaching their full potential. But he was digressing. Laurens wouldn’t accept her, and yet it felt like such a waste of the time and effort he had put him to hand her over to the police without a fight.

A small smile blossomed up on Madison’s lips. He had an idea.

***

“You _killed_ Eliza Schuyler,” Laurens hissed, stabbing the shorter man’s chest with his finger.

Madison didn’t pause in putting back the books he had perused. “Did you like my exhibit?”

“You put her out in Central Park like she was some sort of—some sort of a statue for tourists to stare at!” Laurens sputtered.

Madison smiled dreamily. “It was quite a sight, wasn’t it?”

Laurens threw up his hands. “ _Are you even listening to me_? You killed my friend! You killed Eliza! In what world is that acceptable?” he demanded.

Madison shrugged. “It didn’t make that much of a difference to me whom I killed,” he told Laurens drolly.

“ _Eliza,_ ” Laurens emphasized. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

Madison raised an eyebrow. “Did I give you the impression that my victims had to? Laurens, I’m not a good person. She looked beautiful even in death, you know,” he mused. “A true piece of art.”

Laurens pinched the bridge of his nose. “You froze her. Into a statue. And used her like some sort of a zoo animal for your own amusement.”

“Correction: I strangled her until she lost consciousness, _then_ I froze her,” Madison said impassively. “She would have looked dreadful, all panicked and terror-stricken, had she been conscious for the process. That would have ruined the purpose of the exercise.”

Laurens stared in dawning horror. “You’re insane. You’re talking about a human being,” he emphasized.

“I know.”

“You kill for _fun_ ,” Laurens realized, swallowing loudly.

Madison shrugged. “Haven’t we established that already? It’s a challenge, and I’ve never been able to resist one. People have hobbies. Mine is simply killing people. I like to consider myself a proper artist with a knife. I like the aesthetic of it.” He smiled. “Why do _you_ kill?”

Laurens glanced down at his hands—looking _anywhere_ but at Madison, whose smirk was growing more ominous by the second. “To calm my nerves. To get rid of anxiety, of that coiling feeling churning in my stomach and suffocating me.”

Madison nodded. “You kill with a knife, yes?”

Laurens nodded. “Always. They’re quick and clean. Efficient.”

Madison clucked his tongue in disappointment. “Where’s your artistic spirit, Laurens?”

“I leave it when I leave work. Killing isn’t an art form.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s the _ultimate_ art form—the only art form that matters, in the end. Everyone has to experience it.” He licked his lips. “Silence looks good on you,” he said unexpectedly.

“Are you thinking about killing me?” Laurens asked, dreading the answer.

Madison chuckled. “John, I think about killing everyone. I imagine scenarios—let them play out in my head, account for every detail—and then I execute the one I like the most. It can be anything, really.” He shrugged. “Sometimes, I invite someone to dinner, and poison them. Sometimes, I do stab people,” he conceded, “although I do try to avoid blood. It’s _messy_.” He scrunched up his nose in distaste. “It’s a game, no different than any other. You win or you lose. I don’t care how it happens, as long as it’s not mundane.”

Laurens was staring at Madison as he talked. He had gotten in deeper than he had ever imagined, and only now did it begin to dawn on him that there was no way out.

“I’m fond of hanging,” Madison continued, “because I get to watch as life drains out of the person. I do have to admit to a sort of fascination with that one moment when someone goes from living”—he smiled softly—”to deceased. It helps me value the fleetingness of life. I’ve always been a sickly kid. I have never been tough or strong or powerful in any way—but to watch the life go from someone's eyes, to watch their head loll back and hands drop? There’s no greater sense of power than that, John.” His eyes were glinting with delight.

Suddenly, he turned on his heels. He grabbed one of Laurens’ knives, lifting it up to his face to examine it closely. Laurens instinctively took a step back.

Madison’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. “There’s no sense of artistry in you, is there?” He sighed. “It’s ironic, really—one would have imagined that a painter such as you would have appreciated the aesthetic that goes into death.”

Laurens swallowed. “No. I don’t do that. I kill to to release pent-up anger and aggression.”

“Ah.” The knife was back on the table. Somehow, Laurens didn’t feel all that much more secure. “Of course. I understand.”

Laurens believed him. He didn’t know what unsettled him more—the fact that he did believe him, or the fact that, in a way, he was just like Madison.

“You kill so that you get to _choose_ whom you hurt,” Madison continued as easily as breathing. “You’ve got a nasty temper, Laurens. Better to kill someone nameless on the street than end up hurting someone _close_ to you, yes? You _justify_ it. You feel that you _have_ to justify it.” The expression on Madison’s face fell somewhere between dismay and pity. “Some day,” he muttered, more to himself than to Laurens. “Some day, I’ll show you.”

***

Alexander asked John to join him at a bar the next night.

John turned him down.

He was still keyed up, still on edge about everything Madison had said the previous evening. It had been looming over him all day, distracting him, ruining his concentration. Three different paintings had suffered from his inability to focus, which only frustrated him further.

So, no, John didn’t go with Alex, Lafayette, and Hercules to a bar that night.

Instead, he found himself between two old, abandoned warehouses on the edge of the city. If it weren’t for the booming bass and flashing lights coming from one of the buildings, the scene would’ve felt too overdone and cliché for even _John_. Madison would have loved it, of course, the drama queen.

As it was, the noise was the building on his right grew louder and louder, until the ground itself felt as it was shaking, trying to escape the scene it knew was coming. John didn’t blame the group of twenty-somethings who stumbled out, raggedy and drunk and complaining loudly about ‘killer headaches’.

The irony wasn’t lost on John.

He killed the girl first, a swift jab between the ribs as John did his best to ignore the cries of her two friends as red seeped through her yellow dress.

John found no beauty in it. He didn’t know whether he wished he had, or if he was happy that he didn’t.

The shorter of the two boys was next, choking on blood as John pulled his blade out from his chest, the knife momentarily catching on the fabric of his army jacket as he fell. The boy’s thick, coke-bottle glasses shattered as they hit the pavement.

The last boy was fell to his knees before the first, his hands covering the wounds as if it would keep it from being real. He was crying, John realised, and the sight was almost enough to stop him.

But he _couldn’t_. Couldn’t leave a witness, couldn’t get caught.

John shut his eyes after he slit the boy’s throat, right above a garish purple bow-tie. He didn’t watch as the boy’s blood stained his magenta hoodie, didn’t witness him slump over the other boy’s lifeless form.

Instead, he turned and ran.

***

There was a knock on John’s front door. “John,” Lafayette said slowly from behind it, “may I come in?”

John choked on his breath. “Of course,” he muttered. “Why _wouldn’t_ you get to come in?” He quickly wiped his hands on his jeans before he opened the door. It hadn’t been messy that night, a quick stab to the gut of a man with crack still dusted on his face. He could pass it off as a bar fight, or maybe two.

John forced himself to smile as he stared at his friend. _No need to look like a sociopath._ he reminded himself. That position was already taken.

“John…” Lafayette said slowly, furrowing his brows in confusion. “Why do you look like you’ve been through a meat grinder?”

“Wha—Oh, this?” John made a show of looking at himself. “I’ve been in a bar fight.”

Lafayette’s frown deepened. “You told us that you wanted to stay home,” he accused, “and now you’re telling me that you did go to a bar without us? Why are you being so evasive?”

“I’m not,” John immediately protested.

Lafayette’s eyes said that he wasn’t fooled. “John,” he pressed. “What is it?” He tried to peer around John. John shifted, shielding the living room from Lafayette’s sight. “What are you hiding?”

“I told you: nothing.”

“Then let me see your living room.”

“Why?” John hissed, suddenly feeling angry. What was Lafayette _thinking_? Just because he was John’s friend didn’t give him the right to poke his nose into every aspect of John’s life, especially not when John so clearly wanted something to remain private. It was better for Lafayette this way, anyway. If he found out what John was, John doubted that he could keep Madison—or worse still, _himself_ —from killing him to ensure his silence.

Lafayette stepped around John. “Don’t be such a baby,” he told John. “Just let me see—Mon _Dieu_.” Lafayette came to a sudden stop. He pressed a hand to his mouth in horror as he took in the blood-stained jacket laying on the living room floor. He swallowed, turning back to John. “John, there’s blood on that jacket,” he told him.

“I know,” John replied, mentally running through his inventory of knives. Where was the closest—oh yes. The umbrella stand. Perfect. “It's not mine.”

“It’s too much blood for a bar fight.”

“I know,” John confirmed.

Lafayette took in a sharp breath. “John, what did you _do_?” he asked, dreading the answer.

John felt his fingers twitch and took a few deep breaths. It was fine. This was fine. Everything would be _fine._ “There were two people. They jumped me, outside a bar. I had to—they would've—it was self defence—” he scrambled to say, silently wishing that he had Alexander's way with words.

Lafayette didn't look reassured. In fact, he looked _worse,_ if that was even possible. “John,” he began, taking a step back, “did you kill them?”

“What?” John said, trying to keep from laughing. “No! Of course not! Jesus, Laf, who do you take me for?”

“John,” Lafayette whispered, “did you kill these people? Answer me honestly.”

Something inside of John _snapped._ “Yes,” he snarled. “I killed someone. It wasn't two people at a bar. It was an old man in Brooklyn. And two nights ago, a homeless girl in Queens. The night before that, I couldn't even tell what they looked like, only that they smelled like piss and vodka. Last week, it was three kids leaving a party. So, yes.” He finished, oddly triumphant. “I _did_. I killed someone.”

Lafayette took another step back, fear evident in his eyes. “John—” he started.

“I killed someone! I've killed a _lot_ of someones!” John said, not trying to restrain his laughter. “And not because I find it _beautiful_ or something sick like that. No, I kill because it makes me feel better. It's like fucking _yoga_. Is that any better, Laf? That the only way to keep myself from being angry, from being stressed, from feeling like a complete human failure, from lashing out at _you_ guys, is to kill strangers?”

“John, we can help you,” Lafayette said quickly, waving his hands in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring movement. “Me, Alexander, Hercules. We're your _friends._  We can help. Get you to therapy, or something. You don't have to do this. Just calm down, alright?”

John smiled. “Can’t you _see,_ Lafayette? I don’t _need_ your help. I don’t need help, _period._ This is miles better than any therapy you could find.”

“You are _killing people_ , Laurens!” Lafayette shouted, and for a moment John was sent back to that conversation with Madison. “People! With families and lives! Those kids you killed? I saw that on the news! One of those boys, his sister, she hung herself in the bathroom the next day. Look _around_ , John! Don't you know what you're doing?”

“I know perfectly well what I’m doing. I also know what I would have done if I didn’t do this. Madison agreed, by the way.”

Lafayette’s eyes widened imperceptibly. “Madison?” he echoed. “Does he know—”

“He’s like me,” John told Lafayette matter-of-factly. “Or, well, not _like me_. He doesn’t kill people because he needs to, or because it calms him down. He does it because he likes it. He sees killing as some form of art.”

“You seem to like it well enough,” Lafayette snarled.

John stared at him for a moment, letting the words sink in.

No, he didn't enjoy watching it. He didn't get some sort of sick _pleasure_ from watching the life go out from behind people’s eyes. He didn't dwell on it, didn’t obsess with the process, didn't study it or revel in it.

But he didn’t _hate_ it either. He wasn’t exactly full of self-loathing when he thought about what he was doing. He simply… didn’t mind.

“I’m sorry it had to come to this,” John told Lafayette mournfully.

Lafayette’s eyes darted between John and the door. “John, you don’t have to do this,” he said quickly.

John smiled sadly, his mind running through the scenario that would play out in a second. Okay. Show time. “No, actually, I do.”

Lafayette moved quickly, making for the door. Just as his hand wrapped itself around the handle, he felt a cold blade against his throat. The sharpness of it startled him into letting go, but it wouldn’t have made much of a difference if he held on—his throat had been cut. He stared at his hands as they became stained with the blood spilling from his throat. “Wh—” he tried to make a sound, but choked on the blood flowing upward through his pharynx.

John watched as Lafayette finally, _finally,_ pressed his hands to his throat in a futile attempt to stem the blood flow. It wasn’t a new sight by any means, but he had always targeted strangers. Never people he knew. A thrill shot through him as he watched Lafayette choke on his own blood. He wondered whether Lafayette would die from drowning or blood loss. Judging by the rate at which the blood was drizzling onto the clothes, it would be the latter.

His nose twitched. The blood was _messy_. He favoured quick, easy kills. Not… this. He wasn’t Madison—he didn’t take pleasure from watching people’s lives drain away before his eyes in some sort of a poetic metaphor for death or whatever.

 _To watch the life go from someone's eyes?_ Madison’s voice echoed in his head. _There’s no greater sense of power than that, John._

He stood in that same position, watching as Lafayette’s corpse slowly cooled, until there was another knock on the door. His head snapped up. _Seriously_? _Now_? What were the chances?

“Hey, John, buddy, is Lafayette there?” Hercules shouted. “Lafayette said that he wanted to see you about something, but he never texted me whether he got to your house. Is he with you?”

“In a way,” John muttered, low enough for Hercules not to be able to overhear.

“John?” Hercules pressed. “I need to find Lafayette. You know what he’s like—impulsive when he gets something through that thick head of his. I need to know that he hasn’t done something completely crazy. I need to know that he’s safe with you.”

“He’s not here,” John said, his eyes fixated on Lafayette’s still body.

Hercules heaved a sigh. “Well, will you let me come in, at least? It’s _freezing_ out here, man.”

“I’d rather… not,” John said slowly, even has he began moving Lafayette’s body to where the door, once opened, would shield it from sight. He couldn’t do a damn thing about the blood, though. “I’m… busy.”

“Listen, John. Unless you’re having an orgy in there, in which case I feel insulted that I wasn’t invited”—Hercules chuckled—”you _will_ let me in. You’re being weird about this. You’ve been weird for a few days now, actually.”

“I'm not being _weird_ ,” John protested, praying that Hercules would just _drop it,_ “I'm just… naked. I'm naked, so. Sorry. Maybe some other day.”

“Bullshit. You've opened the door naked before, Laurens. We went to college together; there’s nothing about you that I haven’t seen already.” John sincerely doubted that. “What the hell is going on?” Hercules demanded.

“Hercules, _please_. For once, just leave.”

Hercules was quiet for a moment, and John was almost sure he was gone when:

“John, I can't leave.”

“Why _not,_ Hercules?” John snapped, “Why the hell not?”

“Because last time I left you alone when you got all weird, you took half a bottle of sleeping pills and wrote a note. Now open the _goddamn door_ before I open it for you.”

One dead friend was enough for the night. Maybe, John thought miserably as he opened the door, maybe he would be able to get Hercules to leave, no questions asked.

 _Yeah, fair chance of_ that _happening,_ commented a portion of his brain that sounded suspiciously like Madison.

 _Shut up,_ John replied viciously.

He let the door swing open, and Hercules stepped in. “John—” he began, before the floor caught his eye.

“Yes?” John replied uneasily, trying to divert Hercules’ attention from the floor. “What is it?”

“John,” Hercules said slowly, “why is there blood on the floor?” His eyes followed the trail of blood to where the door was hiding Lafayette’s body out of Hercules’ sight. He tried to push the door aside to see, but John appeared in front of him quicker than he had thought possible.

“It’s not blood,” he said quickly. “It’s… paint. I’m redecorating.”

“Your _floor_?” Hercules asked disbelievingly.

“My floor,” John confirmed, even as he couldn’t suppress a grimace at such an atrocious excuse.

Hercules crossed his arms. “John, what is it?”

John fidgeted. “I think you need to leave. Right now.”

Hercules’ eyes narrowed in suspicion. John was quiet as he watched Hercules swoop down to dabble a finger in the pool of the red liquid. He raised it to his nose, then to his lips.

What could he do to stop him? Throw him out? Hercules would only return, or, worse yet, go to the police. John couldn’t afford that. Kill Hercules? That was rapidly shaping up to be the more likely option.

Hercules’ head snapped back to John, and he could see the exact moment when Hercules put it all together, a look of dawning horror on his face. “You—”

“Me,” John echoed hollowly.

“You killed Lafayette!” Hercules yelled. “You killed my _friend_! _Your_ friend! Do you have _no regrets_?”

John’s shoulders slumped. “Right now, my greatest regret is letting you come in. It’s shaping up to be the second-worst decision in my life so far.” The worst being letting Lafayette inside. He almost felt like he had reached a point from which there was no return.

Hercules stumbled back, trying to create some distance between himself and John, turning over furniture in his frantic attempt to get away, but John was _right_ _there_ , his knife ever so quick as he repeated a motion he had done dozens, if not hundreds, of times.

He had killed hundreds of people, John realized with a start. At the end of it all, what was one more body—even if it was a friend? It was so easy. It shouldn’t be, but it was.

 _Fuck,_ John thought as he stared down as Hercules collapsed onto his knees and then fell flatly on his face. He lacked that certain grace he always had while alive, and John had been the one to take it from him.

What was he supposed to do now?

John was at a loss as to what to do. He needed help, and there was only one person who could help him solve this mess.

He called Madison. “Can you… come over?” he asked tentatively. “I have a bit of a situation here.”

Madison hummed thoughtfully. “Does this situation, by any chance, pertain to our mutual hobby?”

John exhaled loudly enough that Madison heard him over the phone. “Yes,” he admitted. “Lafayette and Hercules dropped by.”

“And?” Madison prompted when nothing else was forthcoming.

“ _And_ I would rather not speak about this over the phone,” John told him.

“Alright,” Madison said eventually. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

***

For the third time that evening, there was a knock on the door, followed by a “Laurens”. John heaved a sigh as he let Madison in.

Madison frowned as he looked around, taking in the scene before him. “An interesting situation you have here. It _is_ going to be rather difficult to clean up, though,” he mused, glancing around, studying the bodies dispassionately.

“Is that all you have to say?” John all but shrieked. “These were my _friends_!”

“Whom you killed,” Madison reminded him patiently. “You can’t put the blame on me, Laurens. Tell me.” Suddenly, Madison's face was mere inches away from Laurens'. “Did you like it? Please tell me you did. What did you feel?”

John shoved Madison away. “Piss off,” he hissed. “I’m not a complete psychopath.”

Madison shrugged. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I prefer the term 'creative'.”

John gaped. “ _Of course it’s a bad thing_!”

“Says who? Society? Society’s overrated.”

John stared at Madison for a moment and felt his stomach drop. “Madison,” he said slowly, “Two of my _closest friends_ are _dead._ Can I have a moment, one _single_ moment, before you start waxing poetic about the joys of death?”

Madison stared at John for a moment, before abruptly turning on his heels and heading for the kitchen. “I’m going to make coffee. Want some?” he suggested.

“Wha—Why?” John asked, perplexed.

“Because we’re about to have guests.”

It felt like the blood in John’s veins had frozen solid. Surely Madison wasn't stupid enough—crazy enough—to call the _cops_. “What have you done?”

“Oh, I called a certain couple,” Madison said flippantly. “I think they’re going to be here any moment now, Laurens.”

A certa—

_Shit._

“But… _why_?” John asked, his stomach sitting in his shoes.

“You need to decide once and for all,” Madison said, his voice somehow threatening even in its apathy.

“Decide _what_?”

“Whom you’re going to kill. What kind of a life you want to lead.”

“What do you—”

“You can either kill Hamilton or Thomas. You _could_ try to kill me instead, of course, but I assure you that I’m more than capable of defending myself. My personal choice would be Hamilton, for obvious reasons, but I’m not going to hold it against you if you kill Thomas instead.”

“And if I don't kill either?” John growled, taking a step into Madison's space.

The man seemed entirely unaffected, taking a moment to pick up two different mugs and studying the details in each.

“Swirls or spots, John?” Madison presented the other man with the two cups, glancing up at him expectantly.

“ _What if I don't kill either of them_?” John pressed, his fists tight by his side's.

“Then I take away your choice,” Madison explained easily. “Hamilton isn't _quite_ the picture Eliza was, but I'm sure that I'll come up with _something_ to honour him.”

“You’re not killing my friend,” John growled.

“No, I’m hoping that you will.”

“I'll call the police,” John said stubbornly.

“And bring them down on _both_ our heads? Think, Laurens. Who would that hurt more? Your MO is clear. Every stabbing in New York City would be pinned on you. Me? I'm not nearly as predictable. That’s one of the advantages of not having a clear MO. I could just as easily stab Hamilton using one of those stunning knives of yours, and with the police being what it is, who will be able to tell the difference?”

John gaped at Madison for a moment. “You're willing to risk your _best friend_ on the off chance that I'll, what, see the light? Somehow start getting off on killing like _you_ do? Don't you care at _all_?”

Madison merely shrugged. “It would seem not,” he replied before holding up the mugs again. “Now. Swirls or spots?”

***

The knock on the door came fifteen minutes later.

“I’ll get it,” John told Madison. “No need to get up mid-coffee.”

Madison followed him anyway, the cup with the swirls on his lips as he drank the hot liquid.

“What’s goi— _What happened here_?!” Alexander demanded in a high voice.

“Laurens killed Lafayette and Mulligan,” Madison explained lightly.

John glared at Madison. “You say it like you’re so fucking innocent,” he snapped. “Not two minutes ago, you were merrily discussing which of us will kill Alex.”

“You _what_?!” Alexander shrieked. He snapped his head to John. “ _Explain,_ ” he demanded.

Madison rolled his eyes, a gesture clearly conveying ‘See what you’ve done?’.

John steeled himself before turning to face Alexander. “I’m a serial killer,” he said frankly. “So is Madison. He’s just better at it. Also, I killed Lafayette and Hercules. They’re over there behind that door.” He motioned at where he had dragged Hercules’ body while he had waited for Madison to arrive.

John followed Alex’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed. “Listen, John.” Alexander’s voice shook as he spoke. “We can talk about this.”

John huffed. “Funny—Laf and Herc said the exact same thing. It didn’t do _them_ any good.” In the back of his mind, he realized that he was playing right into Madison’s trap, but he couldn’t help it, _goddammit_.

Jefferson pulled Alexander aside. “Alex,” he whispered furiously, “ _no_. Don’t do this. Just—let’s run.” John felt Madison tense up at the words, and knew that the both of them would be dead before they made it to the front door if they decided to run.

“Wouldn't recommend it,” John said quickly, hoping to dissuade them from the idea. God, if he could just get _one_ of them out—either one would do, really. If he could just do that…

“Listen,” Alexander whispered back in the same tone. “I can get through to him. John, I mean.” He threw a furtive look at Madison, who was calmly sipping the coffee.

“Alexander, please,” John said, “Go to the bathroom. Wait there, okay?”

Madison clucked his tongue in disappointment. “I see,” he said vaguely. “Well, I had hoped you’d—”

“Shut up,” John told the shorter man, his eyes flashing with anger. However he looked at it, it was all Madison’s fucking fault. Madison for getting involved, Madison for calling Alexander and his boyfriend, Madison for planting those _thoughts_ in his mind in the first place. “Alex, go. You don't have to see it.”

“John, please—” Alexander began.

“No,” John cut him off brusquely. “I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say that you want to help me, and that I don’t have to do this, and that you’re going to be there for me, and that there are other solutions. Well, guess what? There aren't.” John glared at him for a moment. “Can't you see that I'm trying to _help_ you?”

Jefferson stepped in between Alexander and John. “Laurens—” he began.

“Alexander,” John addressed Alex, completely disregarding Jefferson, “go to the bathroom. Don’t come out until I tell you to.”

“What are you planning on doing?” Alexander asked, dread in his voice.

Madison smiled. “Killing your boyfriend, of course. That was the deal: he needs to kill one of you. I had really hoped it would be you, but Laurens is a little disappointing this way.”

“James, _please_ ,” Jefferson suddenly cut in, turning towards the man. “James, Jemmy, how long have we known each other? How long have we been friends?”

“Twenty-three years,” Madison replied without hesitance.

“ _Twenty-three years_ ,” Jefferson repeated. “You can't do this! There's no way! I was there, I was always there! You _can't_ —”

“That's the thing, Thomas,” Madison replied. “I _can_. That's the whole appeal. I can do anything, to anyone.”

John glared at Madison again before turning back to Alex. “I can't stop this,” he said. “Just go. You don't—you don't need to see this. It'll all be over soon.”

“No,” Alexander said defiantly. “No. I’m not leaving. If you want to kill Thomas, you’re going to have to kill me first.”

John heaved a sigh. This was getting repetitive. Why was Alexander so fucking _stubborn_?

Something shifted in Jefferson’s eyes. He took a step back, the look on his face one of abject terror, before turning to face John. “Well then,” was all he said before suddenly, too quickly for John to react, lounging at John. He felt the knife being torn from his hand—saw the stream of blood running along Jefferson’s hand from where he had grabbed the knife by its blade—saw a brief flash of silver, and felt excruciating pain that brought him down to his knees. He looked down, and saw blood drizzling from his larynx.

He giggled, even as he pressed his hands against his throat, trying against hope to stop the blood from leaving his body. It was ironic, in a way, that he was going to die the way his victims had. A pity, too. There was no one to stop Madison now. On the other hand, he didn’t have to see the whole thing through now—there was no responsibility on his shoulders to _make this right._

The last thing he heard was a snort from behind him.

Madison was openly laughing. “This, I had _not_ expected,” he admitted once he got his laughter under control. “It’s refreshing. Thomas, you might not be a lost cause quite yet.”

“Shit,” Madison heard Hamilton mutter under his breath. “John hadn’t been _kidding_.”

“Don’t you see, Thomas?” Madison was smiling. He took a step towards Thomas, who instinctively took a step back. The mug Madison had been holding shattered as he dropped it.

“Don’t come closer, James!” Thomas warned. “Or I’ll call the cops!”

Madison’s eyes became shrouded with disappointment. “You don’t see it yet, do you?” he said with a sigh. “You don’t see the beauty of it—the elegance, the peculiarity, of death—how it snuffs out life faster than a candle. What you have to understand Thomas, is that life is fleeting. It’s precious. And that’s why we have to treasure it.”

“By what? By _killing people_?” Thomas was shouting in panic. “That’s not treasuring life as I see it, Madison!”

Madison shook his head. “No,” he corrected Thomas softly. “By paying tribute to that fact. By treasuring every life and being careful with it even as you end it. Everyone deserves their moment—a moment to be loved, to be seen as beautiful, as stunning. I give people that moment, and I remake them into art.”

Madison’s eyes were following Thomas’ every movement, like a predator watching its prey, waiting for a moment to pounce.

Thomas had a sinking feeling that, unless he did something, he wasn’t coming out of this house alive.

“You need help. I'm calling the cops, James,” he said suddenly, his mind made up, one hand already on his phone.

James smiled. "You're doing no such thing."

That was all the warning Thomas had before he saw a flash of silver and felt excruciating pain surge through his body. He screamed. Tears formed in his eyes. He glanced down, blinking away the tears. The sight before him made him nauseous. There was blood everywhere. Red. Red. Nothing but _red_. Everything was stained in that same colour. It was gushing from a three inch wide stump of what was formerly his right hand. He touched it with his other hand—his _only hand,_ his brain reminded him—sure that he had imagined it.

His fingers came away hot and sticky and _red._ The blood of angry men indeed.

“What have you _done_?!” he howled.

“What needed to be done,” Madison said patiently. “Thomas, you need to learn to treasure life as it is. Maybe the loss of your hand will help you with it.”

“You’re a _psycho,_ ” Jefferson spat, feeling a panic unlike anything he has ever felt overtake him. “Oh my God, you’re an actual psychopath. My best friend is a psychopath, Alexand—”

Jefferson’s words were cut off as Madison sliced a knife through his throat. Where there was blood before, was now a veritable sea of red. The blood flowed from Jefferson’s throat, staining everything around him. It looked like a waterfall, Madison thought giddily. It was a neat sight. James Madison had never liked blood. It was messy. It was revealing. It was treacherous, _unreliable._ Still, maybe Laurens _had_ been onto something with the knives and the cutting. There was a certain finesse to it, if one knew what they were doing. Imagine the sort of art Madison could have created, had he thought of that.

Madison snickered. That quickly turned into full-blown laughter. He doubled over, waving the knife haphazardly as he tried to get himself under control, but really, this was too ironic. He had killed Jefferson with one of Laurens’ knives. The knives that had been intended, Madison had hoped, for Hamilton. The same knives that Jefferson had used to kill Laurens. It was poetic revenge, in a way, for what Jefferson did to Laurens.

When he regained his bearings, he glanced down at Hamilton, who had curled up into a corner. He was muttering something maniacally, seemingly lost. Or crazy, Madison’s mind supplied. Not that he could blame him. It has been a long day. He had just watched his entire world fall apart.

Still, Madison couldn’t leave any witnesses.

“Come on, Alexander,” he coaxed Hamilton into a standing position.

“D’n’t w’nt—” Hamilton began weakly.

Madison shushed him. “I can’t let you leave, Alex. You’re a witness now. But I can promise you it will be quick.” Or as quick as a hanging could be. He could indulge himself in this last pleasure, couldn’t he? “Quick and painless.”

Oddly, Hamilton didn’t protest after that. Madison had expected him to put up more of a fight than this. He wasn’t trying to escape, wasn’t struggling—nothing. It was a far shot from Eliza Schuyler, or even the Alexander Hamilton of a week ago, who would have fought him tooth and nail to stay alive. Maybe Madison really _had_ broken him. Oh, well. It didn’t make much of a difference, in the end. In a short moment, nothing would be making much of a difference anyway.

He led Hamilton to a stool and told him to stand there. Hamilton nodded numbly. Madison’s lips curled up into a grin. So subservient. It was a nice change.

He fetched a bit of rope from his chest, and set to preparing the noose.

Hamilton didn’t struggle even as Madison put the rope around his throat. He did struggle as Madison kicked away the stool, but it was as though he was only going through the motions, no real motivation behind his actions. Madison watched in morbid curiosity as life drained out of Hamilton, as he struggled to talk, struggled to take a breath, until he _couldn’t._ It was funny, in a way, that all it took to quieten Alexander Hamilton was a bit of rope.

That done, Madison made his way across the room. He absentmindedly kicked Jefferson’s corpse.

 _Useless,_ he thought. _Useless in death._ It was remarkable how quickly brilliance could be snuffed out.

James Madison had seen death in more forms than he could count. Gunshots, stabbings, drowning, strangling, multiple types of poison (sometimes at the same time), burning. Anything he could imagine.

Almost.

There was still one thing, _one thing_ , he didn’t know. One thing left.

He’d seen death in more forms than he could count, but he’d never _experienced_ it.

_One thing left._

A dramatic exit.

***

Detective Burr surveyed the scene with a sigh.

Upon arriving at the scene, he had only found six bodies, all different degrees of stiffness, as well as a letter—penned, if the signature was to be believed, by James Madison. Frankly, Burr found it disgusting, but he supposed that it did make sense, from a certain point of view.

Burr looked up from the letter, glancing at the bodies once again. Well, there was nothing to it. He needed to discover what had happened.

He needed to tell their story—a story of phantom faces at the windows and ghosts in every room.

**Author's Note:**

> Ummm. We're sorry? Please don't lynch us?


End file.
